2008 10Best Contest Winners

Shoeless Joe, meet Shirtless Stan.

MICKEY MOUSEAs an 18-year-old, I worked a summer stint in 1965 for Jesse James Parking in the San Fernando Valley of L.A. One Sunday afternoon at the Queen’s Arms restaurant, I opened the passenger door of an ivory Mercedes-Benz 230SL and welcomed a middle-aged woman as she got out.

Later, Jesse came out of the restaurant and told me to check the registration on that Mercedes. I almost fell over: The temporary taped inside bore the familiar signature of Walter E. Disney. The dealer was just a mile north on Ventura Boulevard, and we surmised the car had been purchased that afternoon. I was then instructed to bring the Benz to the portico to show it off until Walt finished his dinner.

When the Disneys came out, they were accompanied by another couple. The four of them stood talking next to the 230SL. While the ladies chatted, the other man turned to Walt and said, “That’s a really cute little car. What do you have to pay for something like that—three thousand dollars?” Walt looked a little pained and said it was a little more than that. The man looked at the car again and asked, “Four thousand?” Walt looked more pained and said quietly, “More.”

The man was not to be deterred and said a bit more loudly, “Five thousand?” Walt took hold of the man’s arm and turned him away from the women. He then stage-whispered, “It was six thousand, and I don’t want my wife to know, okay?” Walt then grabbed his wife and steered her toward the passenger door I was holding open, got in, and drove off.

I found Walt’s reaction amusing. Here was a multimillionaire in charge of a huge entertainment empire, and he was afraid his wife would find out that their new car had cost $6000. More than 40 years later, and having been married for 30 years, I now understand.

David DegnerPortland, Oregon

John Brickels hunts down vintage pedal cars and perches them on brown stoneware clay, hand-building all the other parts.

KNUCKLEHEADS AND GOTHSAs a member of the clergy, I refer to duct tape in its ecclesiastical designation, “God on a Roll,” because it fixes everything.

Awhile back, I was a youth minister at the biggest church of all our congregations. I was doing my job so well, they fired me a year later. Seems the kids I was bringing into the youth group were not the kids they wanted—skaters, Goths, knuckleheads who needed a connection with the Big Guy. So I was fired.

I found another church and prepared to move. Amongst my stuff was a built-from-scratch barbecue smoker that held sentimental attachment. As I was hammering down the freeway in my truck, pulling a loaded trailer, the smoker began to move and shift about and broke the ropes and tie-downs. I stopped three or four times to fix it, but to no avail. So I pulled over a last time and agonized over what to do. I was in the middle of nowhere and it was after midnight and I had no more rope.

I sat there on the end of the trailer knowing I was going to have to dump the cooker over the side. I took a big dip of Copenhagen and began to say my goodbyes. As I walked around to the passenger side of my truck to get a box knife to cut it loose, I spotted a Wal-Mart bag lying alongside the road. I went to pick it up, knowing it contained either soiled diapers or a human head, but lo and behold, it contained three brand-new rolls of duct tape. Which I used to secure my cooker to the trailer for the rest of the trip.

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*AccuPayment estimates payments under various scenarios for budgeting and informational purposes only. AccuPayment does not state credit or lease terms that are available from a creditor or lessor, and AccuPayment is not an offer or promotion of a credit or lease transaction.